


The Big Easy

by leonidaslion



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Het
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-16
Updated: 2011-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-14 19:50:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/152840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sammy finds out why they call New Orleans the Big Easy (heh), but Dean has a problem with his choice of partners...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Big Easy

Sam meets her in a butcher’s shop while he’s working an angle on a job. She’s waiting at the counter, pointing out different cuts of meat with a flick of her wrist, and at first that’s all he can see of her: pale, almost porcelain skin, long fingers with sharp nails the color of autumn. Then she sways around—moving like she’s drugged or dancing, he can’t decide which—and the rest of her resolves into focus: long wave of hair, straight as a ruler and black as a raven’s wing; refined, delicate features complete with high cheekbones and a small, kitten-like nose; slanted, Asian eyes, with irises the color of burnt almonds; full lips, red like roses or blood or maybe a little of both. She’s waif-thin and short—barely comes up to his chest—and all he can think is that he’d practically have to fold himself in half to kiss her. And then immediately wonders where the hell that thought came from.

She sees him. Rakes her gaze up and down his body in a deliberate movement, like she’s considering which pieces she’d like wrapped up to take home. And Sam Winchester is no fool when it comes to women, no matter what his brother may think, but this child-woman—can’t be more than nineteen, if she’s legal at all, judging from the look of her—makes his head swim. He can feel himself blushing, and those red lips of hers twitch up in a smile at one side. Her tongue darts out, tasting them, and he’s instantly, unbearably, hard.

The butcher tells him it’ll be just one more minute while he finishes up with the lady. Before Sam can nod, the woman tilts her head back toward the counter, gathering stray beams of light in her hair, and says that it’s no problem: she’ll wait while he assists the gentleman. Her voice is low and throaty, surprising in someone her size, with her looks, and he automatically adjusts her age in his head by adding on at least ten years, possibly more. She’s not in any hurry, she says, and it feels like she’s rubbing up against him with velvet when she speaks, when she glances over her shoulder at him again and laughs.

Sam stays long enough to determine that this is where the hoodoo priest has been getting his hearts and entrails and then turns tail. It’s nothing so dignified as an exit, it’s not even a strategic retreat; it’s a rout, and her laughter chases him out the door, with her scent clinging to his skin and lying heavy in his nose and mouth, all rain and heady musk. His dick feels like it’s going to fall off or explode any second now, and all he wants to do is to find a bathroom and get himself a little relief.

But Dean appears out of nowhere, falling into step beside him, and there’s no way in hell Sam is going to jerk off in some public shit hole while his brother waits impatiently on the other side of the door. Because Dean will find out, somehow, and then he’ll never hear the end of it. Sam reasons that it’ll go away on its own eventually, even if it does hurt like a bitch in the meantime, and does his best to ignore it.

Sometime in between breaking into the hoodoo priest’s apartment and finding it empty and then tracking him down to his temple and—politely—explaining to him that using pig hearts and sheep intestines to resurrect the dead isn’t such a hot idea after all, Sammy Jr. settles down and gets back with the program. Dean’s in a good mood when they finish for the day, and after wrapping his hand—he split his knuckles on the hoodoo priest’s face—he cajoles and pleads and whines Sam into heading out for a few beers.

The bar is located in this trash-littered, poorly lit back alley, and they know Dean by name at the door. Which shouldn’t really surprise Sam because this isn’t the first time Dean’s been in New Orleans, even if you don’t count those three Mardi Gras carnivals he snuck off to during high school. But Dean’s always had pretty good taste when it comes to bars, and this one is no exception once they get inside. It’s got soft lights and hardwood tables and a small stage where a local jazz band is setting up for the night. Dean settles Sam at a table and then disappears, and Sam can tell from the gleam in his brother’s eyes that he isn’t planning on coming back any time soon.

Sam doesn’t mind; he’s content to sit in the corner, drinking and listening as the band starts their first set, his foot tapping absently against the sticky floor. He’s just finishing off his second beer when she slides into the seat across from him and he chokes on the dregs. As he slams the glass down on the table, she laughs and apologizes for startling him, and for the second time in one day, Sam’s breaking the world record for fastest hard-on.

— _Buy you a drink?_ she wants to know. Sam glances around to make sure Dean is otherwise occupied before answering. Because if his brother sees this girl, he’ll hone in like some kind of guided missile and Sam’s decided that she’s his. But Dean is across the room, slipping into the back with a leggy blond, which means that Sam has at least two hours to make this happen.

— _Sure_ , he says, and one beer turns into two, which turns into her tongue in his mouth. They’re in the alley outside the bar, and his back is pressed up against the wall and he doesn’t have to bend to kiss her because her legs are wrapped around his waist. He’s breathing through his nose because his mouth is otherwise occupied and that fresh rain scent, hint of underlying musk, is going straight to his dick. She pulls back a little, drawing his tongue after her, and then sucks him in, bites down gently, and damned if it doesn’t feel like it’s his dick that she’s got her lips wrapped around instead of his tongue.

He moans and she licks the sound down, licks trails across his throat as she slides down his body, and then she’s stepping away, laughing at him. He shudders, palms himself through his jeans, and she chides him, — _Don’t be so hasty, we’ve got plenty of time._

He’s not sure how he manages, but he obeys. Moves his hand away, presses it against cold brick, and he’s sweating, his breath coming rapid and shallow. And he knows that he’s going to lose it; he’s going to come in his pants like some kind of horny teenager if she so much as breathes on him. And he really, really wants her to.

She runs instead, casting glances over her shoulder at him with those dark, slanted eyes. Her hair spreads out behind her in ebony streamers, and her soft, blue dress flares up around her legs: flashes of white in the darkness. He’s after her like a hound on a hare, not sure how he can even _move_ in the state he’s in, let alone _run_. Somehow, he keeps it together long enough to chase her five blocks and into a graveyard, and then she turns and lets him catch her.

He pushes her against the side of a convenient mausoleum and wraps his hands around her hips. Lifts and presses forward, pinning her, and she tilts her head back: flash of the moon on her lips, in her eyes. He nips at her neck, gently, and mouths her pulse; her heartbeat hammers wild against his tongue. She moans when he thrusts his hips forward in a hard, uncontrolled jerk, and the sound vibrates through his skin and down on into his bones.

Her hands tug at the hem of his shirt, demanding, and his lips curve in a hungry smile. He lifts his arms long enough to let her strip off the button-down, and then the t-shirt underneath. Holds her up with the weight of his body against hers. Then her nails are running across his chest, raising goose bumps, and he grips her waist again. Digs his fingers into the soft crevasse where thigh meets hip, and she ducks her head to licks a long, wet line up the center of his chest. His breath stutters out because that fantastic sensation of doubling is back again, like it’s his cock she’s licking, slow and sure and warm down to the tip.

He can’t wait anymore: has to be inside her _now_ , damnit. Fumbles one hand free so he can paw at his pants, but she curls her fingers over his heart and murmurs, — _Wait_.

He grinds to a halt and pants down at her, more than a little pissed, but she only smiles. Her teeth are sharp, shining in the moonlight. The hand on his chest drops down, slides into his pants and grips, warm and solid and _there_ , and he thrusts forward once on instinct before he can stop himself.

— _Want to see you_ , she breathes in his ear, working her hand in steady, tight movements that are almost painfully slow and constricting. — _Want to see the moon pouring down on you, want to see it paint your skin, all of you._

Sam hisses when she takes her hand back, and then he almost drops her in his haste to do what she wants so that they can get the hell on with it already. He can’t get his pants off fast enough, drags his boxers down with them. Untying his shoes require a little more dexterity than he’s capable of right now, so he ends up toeing them both off and kicking them to the side and then it’s done.

He stands there, naked in the middle of a graveyard with the moon pouring down over his shoulders and his chest and parts further south, and knows that he should be embarrassed—should be worried about being hauled in for public exposure at the very least—but all he can think about is finishing this thing they’ve started. Fucking _finally_ finishing it.

She’s looking at him like she’s going to swallow him whole, with the night in her eyes and her face drawn with hunger, and Sam is totally on board with that plan, but she only strokes his chest, possessive. He’s about to do something, maybe bend her over the nearby tombstone and fuck her senseless, when she leans into him, pushes him over. Sam goes down like he doesn’t overreach her by at least two feet and outweigh her by about a hundred and fifty pounds, and then he’s lying on the grass.

The top of his head brushes against the tombstone, and any other time that would freak him out, but she’s settling down on top of him, and _Jesus_ she’s not wearing anything at all under that dress, is she? He makes a muffled, strangled sound and she gyrates down on him, making him sob and beg for release. He slips in, no more than half an inch, just a taste, and she lifts herself, grinning. He pounds his head back against the earth, and swears at her, and she laughs. Bends forward, all that warm hair trailing across his chest, and her tongue caresses his ear.

— _You want something? Just take it._

And Sam must have been waiting for permission to do just that because he’s flipping her over and pressing in, thrusting until he’s sheathed in her, his head tucked down into the corner of her neck. He’s wound up enough and pissed off enough at being toyed with for so long that he forgets to be careful, forgets that women are more delicate and need to be handled carefully. He fucks her hard; slams into her with all his strength like he’s trying to break her wide open and spill her secrets out to the night. She’s as hot as a furnace around him, moist and tight and soft like satin, and he bites down, sudden and hard, on her neck, marking her. Tastes blood on his lips.

At some point, she rolls him over and takes control, sinks down on top of him and takes him deeper, harder, than he’s been able to manage on his own, and it’s so fucking good that it hurts. Her nails dig into his chest, leaving little crescents of blood that she laps at with her tongue. She bites down on his nipple, draws curses from him at the drag of those small, sharp teeth.

When he comes, he’s staring up at her as she moves around him, her hair shadowing her face, her dress somehow still demurely fastened. He realizes that he’s buck-naked while she’s fully dressed and that he’s been so fucking hard and needy that he hasn’t even _thought_ to cop a feel, although that seems pretty redundant at this point. Then he’s coming and he can only sob and pant and hold on for dear life as orgasm rips through him. The moon is heavy and full over her shoulder, fills his vision as he fills her.

When it’s over, he lays there, panting and drenched in sweat and too wrung out to move while she slips off him. He watches the moon and it watches him back: winks at him. Sam thinks he can hear it singing.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He must not have put his shirt back on right, or buttoned his jeans up wrong, or _something_ , because when he gets back to the bar, Dean immediately knows what he’s done.

— _Sammy, you dog!_ he crows, slapping Sam on the back, and Sam winces because he has furrows there, deep scratches from her nails. Dean doesn’t notice; he’s already looking around, past Sam’s shoulder. — _So where is she?_ he demands, and then she slips up next to Sam and slides her arm around his waist and practically melts into him.

— _Dean, this is…uh…_ He realizes, suddenly, that he never asked her name, but she laughs and it isn’t awkward.

— _Kit_ , she purrs, extending one hand toward Dean. _Kit Netsuki_. And she smiles. Sam would feel a stab of jealousy, but she’s kneading his side with her other hand, slipping her fingers just beneath the belt, caressing the skin there, and it’s hard to feel anything but blind desire.

Dean just stares at Kit’s extended hand, face blank, and Sam frowns at him. Of course Dean picks _now_ to stop being charming; he’s jealous of Sam for the first time in his life and he’s going to be a jerk because of it. What Sam would _like_ to do is drop Dean with a right cross for being rude to Kit, but he doesn’t want to cause a scene, so instead he continues with the introductions as though nothing’s gone wrong.

— _Right, Kit. And, Kit? This is my brother, Dean._

— _Yeah, that’s great,_ Dean mutters, shaking himself a little. — _Sorry, but my brother and I have to get going: family emergency._ And he’s grinning at Sam, all teeth and edges and this meaningful head tilt that tells Sam that he should translate ‘family emergency’ into ‘problem with the job that’s going to be painful and a little bit nasty’. He’s tempted to ignore the message, but Kit’s already pulling away.

— _That’s fine, Dean,_ she says, running one hand down Sam’s arm before releasing him completely. — _I have some errands of my own to run._

— _Yeah, I’ll just bet you do,_ Dean says darkly, and Sam can’t stand it anymore.

— _Dean!_ he barks, and grabs his brother’s arm to pull him aside for a private chat. Something makes him hesitate though, and when he turns around he finds that it was Kit, smiling at him, telling him without words that this really isn’t necessary.

— _I had fun tonight,_ she says, and she blows him a kiss before turning her back and gliding away through the crowd.

As soon as she’s gone, Dean shoves Sam in the shoulder, hard. — _Ow!_ Sam protests. — _What the hell was that for?_

— _Car. Now,_ is Dean’s curt response, and then he’s striding away, shoulders bunched.

Sam follows his brother outside, mostly because he has nothing better to do now that Kit is gone, and Dean grabs him and throws him against the Impala. Which is weird because Dean’s always treating that car as though it’s his fucking kid or something. Not that Sam has time to think about it because Dean is stepping right up into his face, is wrapping his hands in Sam’s shirt and shaking him.

— _What the hell did you think you were doing?_ he demands. — _I mean, what the fuck, Sammy?_

— _What the_ fuck _is exactly right_ , Sam shoots back, shoving Dean away.

Dean is back in his space immediately, poking a finger against Sam’s chest. — _When I told you to go out and get some tail, this is_ not _what I meant!_

— _What’s your problem, Dean? Pissed because I scored a hotter piece of ass than you?_ Dean barks a laugh at that and backs away; his mouth curls in disgust as he shakes his head. Sam presses his advantage, adding, — _You’re jealous of me, dude. You saw Kit and you wan—_ It takes him by surprise when Dean slams him against the side of the car— _again,_ the jealous bastard—and scatters his train of thought.

Sam gears himself up for a throw down, since that’s obviously what his brother is after here, but instead of punching him, Dean snaps, — _Just shut up and get in the car, you fucking retard,_ and then stomps around to the driver’s side.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It’s a long, chilly ride back to the motel, and they’re pulling into the parking lot before Sam remembers the ‘family emergency’ and asks about it. Dean gives him a funny, sideways look and says that he’s gonna take care of it; Sam should just get some sleep. Normally Sam would argue because Dean’s overprotective bullshit is nothing if not annoying, but he _is_ feeling pretty wiped, so he shrugs and lets himself into the room while Dean stays in the car.

He showers—grave dirt in the bed is not something he’s down with—and brushes his teeth and then glances out the window on his way to bed. Dean’s still there, pacing next to the car: talking to someone on his cell. Sam can hear bits of Dean’s side of the conversation—something about foxes and cutting off tails—and he’s feeling pretty fucking confused until Dean whirls in mid-step and kicks the Impala. The he figures that he must be dreaming or something and goes and lays down and falls asleep.

When he wakes up the next morning, Dean’s there with a cup of coffee and a bag of donuts. He waits until Sam’s had most of the coffee before asking how he’s feeling today. Sam’s confused at the concern in his brother’s eyes, but he just shrugs and says that he’s feeling okay: definitely good to make the rounds of the local graveyards, make sure they didn’t miss any of the zombies. Dean grins, but it looks a little strained, and he spends the rest of the day watching Sam like he’s going to disappear at any moment. When Sam’s phone rings around dinnertime, Dean practically jumps out of his skin.

— _Dude, what’s wrong with you?_ Sam asks as he glances down at the caller id, which tells him that the number is unlisted.

— _Didn't get much sleep last night,_ Dean answers tersely, and Sam thinks he remembers something about Dean going out and taking care of something, but then he’s holding the phone up to his ear and the honey-deep voice on the other end makes his brain go numb.

— _Yeah, I can make that,_ he agrees when she asks if he wants to get together at her apartment. As though he’s going to say anything else. She tells him that she can’t wait to see him again, that he shouldn’t bother wearing anything nice since it’ll just end up on the floor, and then laughs and hangs up. Sam’s hard again, and he shifts a little so that he’s more comfortable. He can feel himself grinning like a lovesick fool.

— _That was Kit_ , he announces, and then remembers that Dean doesn’t like Kit, in fact he suspects that Dean just might hate Kit a little.

Sure enough, Dean’s eyes scrunch up around the edges, and he says, — _If she wants to see you tonight, she’ll have to take a rain check, cause we’ve got a job to get to over in Atlanta._ Which is just Dean being spiteful because it’s six o’clock and if they set out now, they’ll be driving all night, and if Dean skipped out on sleeping last night, he’s going to be a wreck in a few hours.

Besides, Sam’s not leaving without telling Kit goodbye, and he tells Dean as much. And no, he can’t just _call_ because he doesn’t have her number. Dean fumes silently at that, but in the end he agrees to stay one more night and then suggests that they head back to the motel so Sammy can freshen up before his ‘big date’, and where was he going again anyway? Just wanted to know if Sam was going to need the car, _Christ_ , he doesn’t need to get his panties in a bunch.

Sam apologizes, tells Dean that it isn’t far, only over to North Rampart, and he can take a cab. Dean nods and pays the check and drives them back to the motel. Sam hasn’t taken more than three steps inside before Dean whips him in the back of the head with the butt of his gun.

He goes down hard, dazed and unable to fight while Dean manhandles him onto the bed and ties his wrists down, apologizing the entire time. _If you’re so fucking sorry, why are you doing this?_ Sam wants to ask, and also, why _are you doing this?_ But by the time he can get his mouth to work, Dean is already gone.

Sam lies there, fuming. He imagines Kit waiting for him in her apartment, and tries in vain to get his hands loose. Dean ties pretty good knots, though, and Sam’s head is pounding; there’s a little bit of blood leaking from where Dean hit him, matting his hair and sticking to the pillow. Sam tries to scoot up the bed, or turn over a little, give himself a new angle to work with, and discovers that he can’t move his upper half at all without wrenching one of his shoulders out of the socket.

Now that Sam thinks about it—and he certainly had the time to do so, since he’s not going anywhere—Dean’s obviously possessed. Sam will Christo him when he gets back to the room. Correction: Sam will Christo Dean once he’s been untied and has some holy water close at hand.

Sam’s not sure how much time passes, but when the door swings open, it isn’t Dean. Kit leans against the doorframe, smiling at him, and Sam’s mouth dries up.

— _Well, well,_ she murmurs.

— _Kit! How did you—_

— _Find you? It wasn’t hard. I’m a good tracker; just put my nose to the ground and follow the trail._ She laughs and slips inside, shutting the door behind her. — _Or I may have guessed that your brother would try something like this, and followed you back last night._ Kit flips off the light, casting the room into shadows, but Sam can still see her well enough, all her edges muted into soft-focus. She eyes him, gaze lingering on his hands, securely fastened to the headboard. — _A girl could get used to this. Although there are a few too many layers involved for my taste._

Sam would be more than happy to take them off, if she’d just untie him.

Kit moves her head from side to side slowly, almost dreamlike, as she slinks toward him. — _Not just yet,_ she says, and climbs onto the bed.

Sam shudders as she lies down on top of him: slides his shirt up with both hands and tongues his stomach. His dick twitches once and then stands at full attention, and he’s really hoping that she’s naked under that dress again. She gives him a grin like she knows what he’s thinking and crawls up his body to hover above his mouth.

— _Miss me?_ she asks, and he never gets a chance to answer because she’s biting her way past his lips, licking and sucking and pretty much obliterating the last brain cell he has. He moans and lifts his legs, folding her between them and pressing his groin against hers.

He breathes her in and the next moment she’s gone, and the lights are back on, and Dean’s standing over him— _fucking cockblocker_ —with a machete in one hand and a dead chicken in the other. Wait, a dead chicken? Sam blinks, trying to force a rational thought through his lust-addled brain. Looks around for Kit and finds her crouched in a corner, hands over her face and lovely hair sweeping down over her hands.

— _It’s okay, Sammy,_ Dean says, — _I’ve got her._

— _What the fuck, Dean?_ Sam demands, scowling.

Dean ignores him, edging around the bed with the chicken held in front of him. Kit is scrambling to get away; she’s whimpering and shaking violently. — _Don’t, please!_ she’s begging, and that beautiful voice of hers sounds mangled and scratched.

— _You fucked with the wrong guy,_ Dean says, and he tosses the chicken to the floor in front of her.

Kit twitches away from it, pressing into the wall like she can melt through it and escape out the other side. — _I didn’t hurt him! I wasn’t going to hurt him!_

— _Bullshit. You think I haven’t heard the stories? You think I don’t know what happens to the men you use?_

— _It’s not our fault; they’re just afraid, and sad, and I’ve never…Please, I never hurt anyone. I just…I liked him. I liked him, just for a little while; I wasn’t going to keep him. Please…_

Sam finally marshals himself into a vague understanding of what’s going on here: Dean thinks Kit is some kind of _monster_ , of all things, which is ridiculous and obviously some kind of misunderstanding.

— _Don’t hurt her, Dean,_ he says, — _She’s not what you think; she’s just a person._

Dean hears him this time. Glances over before returning his attention to Kit. — _Show him,_ he orders, and you could freeze vodka with that voice.

— _N-no, please… D-don’t let him s-see me l-like this._

— _Show him or I’ll cut your tail off right fucking now!_

— _Please, I didn’t mean any harm…_ But Dean steps forward, threatening, and she must hear him because she lifts her head. He hair parts around her face like a river, and Sam’s stomach turns over in shock.

Gone is the perfect beauty, the flawless skin, the laughing mouth. Her jaw has lengthened, pulling itself into a snout. Dark red fur has sprouted from her skin, and thin whiskers line the sides of her thin, black nose. Her eyes alone are the same: still slanted, still the color of burnt almonds, still mysterious.

— _Still want me to stop?_ Dean asks, but his voice is gentler now, and he sounds almost sorry.

— _What…what is she?_ At Sam’s words, Kit pulls her knees up to her chest and buries her face in them, hiding herself.

— _A kitsune. They’re native to Japan, but if you know what to look for, they’re easy to spot._

— _Look for?_

— _Tails, man._ Dean’s face twitches in an unreadable expression. — _I can’t believe you didn’t see it._

Kit has a tail? Where the hell was it in the graveyard, then? Cause Sam’s pretty sure he would have noticed something like that. He makes a little, choked laugh; the whole situation is pretty fucking hilarious, in a fucked up kind of way.

— _I’m waiting here, man,_ Dean prods. –- _What do you want me to do? It’s your call._

— _Please, Sam._ Kit’s voice is desperate. — _I didn’t mean anything. I just…I l-liked you, is all. D-don’t let him h-hurt m-me…_

Her words dissolve into sobs and Sam presses his eyes shut. — _Untie me, will you?_ he asks Dean, and then cool hands brush his wrists and a moment later he’s free. Sam doesn’t move, watching the back of his eyelids, and says, quietly, — _The chicken: is that what’s making her show herself?_

— _Yeah. I didn’t think it would work, but Bobby—_

— _Take it outside, and leave the machete._ Sam feels something heavy drop down onto the bed. He hears Dean’s heavy tread cross the room, and the door open.

— _Ten minutes and then I’m coming back in shooting, you hear me, Sammy?_

— _Yeah._

The door shuts.

Sam just lies there, trying to motivate himself to sit up, and then he hears, hesitantly, — _Thank you for having him take the chicken._ Kit’s voice is caramel smooth again, and even knowing what he does, Sam feels a tug in his groin.

— _You put a spell on me, didn’t you._ It’s not a question because he already knows the answer. He just wants to hear her say it.

— _I liked you. I…I knew you were leaving, wouldn’t be here long, and I didn’t…didn’t know what else to do. You liked me, too. I could s-smell it, in the shop. I didn’t mean any harm, didn’t want to hurt. I haven’t hurt you, have I?_

Sam thinks about her nails digging into his chest, thinks about thrusting up to meet her as she pushes down, thinks about the way it felt to be inside her. Lets out a shaky sigh. — _You can’t go around putting spells on people,_ he says. — _It’s not right._

— _I didn’t mean any harm. Please…please don’t kill me._ Then she’s crying again, sounding so lost and helpless that he’s off the bed and kneeling next to her before he realizes that it might not be a great idea. The machete’s still on the bed, too far away to do any good if she’s shamming. But it turns out that fox tears aren’t the same as crocodile tears after all because she only folds herself into his chest and shivers. He pats her back, feeling awkward and a little foolish.

— _Y-you think I’m u-ugly now,_ she cries. — _Ug-ugly and h-hideous. You h-hate m-me. They a-always do, t-they…M-maybe you should k-kill me._

Sam winces, and there never was much of a possibility in the first place, but the chance that he’s going to actually use the machete Dean left him has just dropped to zero.

— _I don’t hate you,_ he assures her. — _And I don’t think you’re ugly. Just…different. Strange._ Her tears slow and she sniffs, peeking up at him. Her face is lovely, even through the red splotches and puffy eyes, and he can’t resist running a hand through her hair. – _Beautiful._

She smiles, a little nervous and lopsided. — _I never meant to hurt you,_ she says. — _I just liked you. Wanted you. So pretty. Pretty in the moonlight. Soft hair._

He smiles back at her, tilts her face further up with one finger hooked under her chin. Even now, knowing what she is—having seen it—he wants her. He’s seen worse, after all. He’s _met_ worse, monsters that would torture you as soon as look at you. And some of those “monsters” have been people.

Kit’s looking up at him with those slanted, mysterious eyes, and he rubs his thumb across her lower lip. — _No more spells,_ he tells her. — _On me or anyone else._

— _No more spells,_ she agrees, nodding. Then tilts her head to the side a little. — _Does this mean you aren’t going to kill me?_

— _Guess not,_ he says, and he can’t seem to keep his thumb from tracing her lips. She moves forward slowly, giving him time to pull back, time to stop her. But he just sits there as she rolls his thumb into her mouth, biting and sucking and licking. He can smell her, all rain and musk and fucking perfection. He’s hard when she pulls back, lets his thumb slip from her lips.

— _We’ve got ten minutes,_ she says, watching him with a sly cast to her eyes.

— _We’ve got five,_ he corrects her. Knows without looking at his watch; he’s been keeping track.

Her smile widens, revealing those tiny teeth: fox teeth. — _I can work with that,_ she says, and then he’s leaning toward her, letting her pull him in, and they don’t make it to the bed. He still can’t find any trace of a tail, even though he’s looking for it this time, and when she realizes what he’s doing, she giggles. Suddenly, something white-tipped and bushy is tickling his nose. He jumps, startled, and it vanishes before he can make a grab for it. Kit is peeking up at him nervously, gauging his reaction, and he grins and demands to know where the hell she keeps that oversized feather duster.

The tension drains out of her and she laughs. Apparently, she can hide it if she concentrates, which was what started the whole problem in the first place. Because he’s just too distracting for her own good. Sam snorts laughter and cups her face and nuzzles at the corner of her jaw. He’s just going to have to distract her some more, then, won’t he?

And she honest to God blushes.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When Sam opens the door to let her out, Dean is sitting on the hood of the Impala, and the chicken’s nowhere in sight. Dean doesn’t look too surprised to see that Kit’s still in one piece, and smiling. He nods to her and tries unsuccessfully to hide a smirk when he glances at Sam’s hair. Sam realizes belatedly what must have given him away last time and makes a mental note to check his hair in the mirror next time something like this happens.

Dean doesn’t say anything, though, and he even heads into the room without being asked and shuts the door behind him, which is a kindness Sam knows for sure he’ll be paying for later. Again and again, probably. Right now, though, he’s thankful, and he takes the opportunity to kiss Kit one more time, deep and slow, his hands tangled in her hair. Then she’s leaving, and he has to stand there and watch her go.

The moon cascades over her body; it makes her a shining thing of shadows and light. She slinks down the road and turns a corner and is gone, even though he can still taste her in his mouth. Sam sighs and then heads back inside.

Dean is sprawled out on his bed, flipping through channels on the TV. He glances up when Sam comes in. Nods at him. — _Sorry about the head, dude. You okay? Want me to look at it?_

Sam has completely forgotten about Dean trying to smash his skull in. He’d like to be angry, but knows that Dean was only trying to look out for him, so he just brushes his fingers against the area instead. Gauges the pain and the blood and the small lump and then shakes his head. — _‘M good._

— _I’ll bet,_ Dean leers.

Sam nabs a pillow off the other bed and pegs it at his brother. — _Shut up, man!_

Dean snickers. — _Dude, you totally made it with a fox. Twice!_

Actually, it had been three times—amazing what Kit could do with five minutes—but it’ll be a cold fucking day in hell before Sam tells _Dean_ that, so he rolls his eyes instead. — _That’s gross, Dean._

— _Hey, I’m not the one who just fucked an animal, bestiality boy._

— _Kitsune aren’t animals; they’re nature spirits._

— _Whatever._ Dean shuts up, pretending to turn his attention back to the TV, but Sam can tell that his brother is just dying to interrogate him about the whole thing. He hurries into the bathroom, knowing that the respite won’t last for long because Dean has no self-control when it comes to sex. And now that he’s remembered his head, it’s really starting to hurt, and he wants to shower and down a few aspirin and then crawl into bed.

Sam has just turned the shower on when the TV snaps off and Dean gives up the faintest pretense of indifference, poking his head around the side of the door and grunting, — _So what was it like?_

Sam just hums to himself and doesn’t answer; ignores Dean’s repeated demands for ‘details, damnit, you can’t hold out on me here, I _saved_ you’ and starts stripping, which has the beneficial result of driving Dean back into the main room and forcing him to close the door. Heh.

Sam grins as he steps into the warm spray. Dean can ask until they’re both arthritic and pushing eighty, but he’s not getting anything. Sam’s a gentleman, after all, and a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell. Even if it was really, really good.

They’re going to have to stop by New Orleans more often. The city is thick with ghosts, after all, and hoodoo practitioners on the edge, and zombies, and all sorts of interesting jobs. And if Sam happens to have the number of a certain fox-spirit tucked away into the lining of his wallet, well, that has absolutely nothing to do with it.

Nothing at all.


End file.
